You are alone. Rīpeka has gone ahead to join your mother, sisters and brothers.
Behind you, all is darkness. In front of you, the electric lights suddenly blaze on the marae. See how the light arcs on the ground and diffuses into the night. Here you stand, still in the darkness. Perhaps you can turn away. No, it is too late. The kuia raise their arms, beckoning you forward. Listen: the sound of their wailing is like a soft wind whispering.
E te tama, haere mai ki ō tātou mate e.
Do you know what they say?
Come to our dead …
Take one step forward. There is no escaping the sorrow of the marae.
Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e.
The kuia open their voices to you. They fill the darkness with their keening. The sound grows louder, and in its spiralling flight it gathers other carolling voices. Higher and higher it spirals, louder and louder, the voices caught in a whirlwind.
Come to our dead. Come. Come.
No, don’t force the memories of your father back. Let them come to you with their whispers of the good times you shared together. He was a good man. Now he is gone. Remember him and weep.
Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e.
And one step further now.
Rongopai rises before you, the roof holds up the night. It is an old meeting house, painted with swirling colours. On the porch your father lies. This is the longest journey of all. It is the loneliest of journeys. Haere mai. Haere mai. Step into the light. Come.
On both sides of the marae, the mourners are watching you. You must not falter. You must be proud. Step boldly, step firmly. Come.
Come to our dead …
More kuia assemble in the light. Upon their heads they wear plaited wreaths of kawakawa leaves. They have threaded their gowns with sprigs of greenery. And in their outstretched hands they wave small green branches.
Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e.
Their bodies sway, their hands quiver, and the green branches cast fleeting shadows. This is the aroarowhaki, the giving up of the tinana to grief.
Come to our dead.
For the entire time of the tangihanga, the kuia will keep their vigil. Their eyes may become heavy-lidded with lack of sleep, but they will always watch over your father. Every visitor to this marae will be welcomed in this same manner.
The kuia will call and they will say: Haere mai. Come. Look upon our taonga where he lies. Share your grief with us.
Look: Te Hinutohu begins to sing a lament. Her voice quivers like the outstretched branches she holds in her hands, then soars in a beautiful waiata tangi, disconsolate above the wailing.
Haruru ana
Te Tiro a Whiro
Taia ake ahau e te mate
I muri nei ei.
It is not the wind whispering; it is not the wind changing. It is a plaintive voice soaring.
Death comes, but I am
not yet dead.
I breathe
I live …
Her voice curls and flutters like a wounded bird. From the darkness other voices come as a rush of wings to join in her lament. The words express the sorrow of this gathering. The night is like the sea and the mourners are gulls wheeling and crying above the waves, dazed and bewildered because Dad has gone. Let your sorrow, too, wing upward to join with their sadness.
I breathe, I live,
I call …
But there is no sound.
The tide ebbs silently away.
Join them; call with them. Your father was their brother, son, and friend, not only your dad. They were his family. Now that he is gone, they weep. Don’t brush your own tears away. There is no shame in weeping. Let your tears fall, let them fall.
The lament brings you further memories of your father. It sings of happy days when you were a child and he was with you. You trusted in him. If you were afraid, you went to him and your fear went away because he was there. You often played together: childish games at the beach or beside a river or at home before you went to bed. Wherever he went, you wanted to go. Sometimes he took you with him and you were glad. But sometimes you had to stay home and look after your mother and sisters. You were proud of him, and you wanted him to be proud of you. And you wanted to be like him, only like him.
Memories rise in the still air
Like smoke from many fires.
They were good days. There seemed nothing to fear as long as he was there. You were content. If there was a storm, you used to look out the window at the rushing clouds and the trees bending in the wind, and yet you would be calm because he was there. At night, if you were afraid, you needed only to call to him and he would come. He was always there when you needed him. Your life with him was a summer without end.
Kua makariri kē
te okiokinga puehu kau?
Now he is dead. Life has changed; winter has come. Sometimes, you were so interested in your own life you forgot that he was there. Perhaps you even thought you didn’t need him. And now you sorrow not only for him, but for yourself too.
Is this the same place,
This place of ashes?
Look around you: you know this place well. This is Rongopai, your meeting house. This is the house of Te Whānau a Kai and this is Waituhi their home. You have happy memories of this place. Now it seems different, as if all happiness has fled away from here with your father and left only this darkness. And with this gloom come dark hours, and you are bewildered by the sorrow they bring.
Pūmau tonu atu
te rere anga te awa
te tōnga o te rā
ngā maunga tū noa.
All the world should end now that your father is dead; but it is only your world that ends. Elsewhere people are laughing and enjoying life. Why is this so?
Yet the stream still runs
And the sun rides over the sky
And the mountains
Are always there.
Ah, there’s the clue, there’s the answer. The waiata tells you that the river of life continues even though you have been caught in a current over which you have no control. The sun hasn’t stopped above you, and one day you will look to the maunga again.
And one step further now.
Haere mai ki ō tātou mate e …
The wailing grows louder and more decorative. It slides from one sound to another, dignified and slow-moving, fading at the end of the phrase and then soaring higher and catching the next phrase with a sudden burst of anger. It is the shrill sound of grief, bringing with it ineffable loneliness. But do not falter, do not hesitate. Haere mai, haere mai. Come. Your father waits.
Look: there is your mother, waiting for you. She sits, weeping over your father. With her are your sisters and the little ones. Let your mother be your guiding star. Point your prow toward that star and let her know that you are here. Strike strong, strike deep.
Suddenly, the darkness is behind you. Rongopai has reached out with arms of light to enfold you. Look how the light shines brilliantly from the porch, enclosed within the peak of the sloping roof. The roof, it seems to move, appears to topple, and in falling would crush you … No, it is only your senses reeling, your heart breaking. Rongopai opens its arms to you with aroha. And there, displayed on the walls of the porch, are the photographs of your tīpuna. They, too, mourn your father’s death. They beckon you closer. Nearer, toward the brilliant flower wreaths banked high. They, too, seem to hold green branches in their hands. They, too, wear chaplets of kawakawa leaves upon their heads. They too, have come to mourn with the living for your father.
There, beneath the tīpuna, your mother lifts her arms to you. And Mārama cries out, Tama! Tama! Her voice rings the air with despair and, at the sound, the waiata tangi begins again.
Haruru ana
Te Tiro a Whiro
Taia ake ahau e te mate
I muri nei ei.
Your father was a good man, the axis of your universe, the sun giving light to your day. Now clouds obscure the sun. All the world laments with you. And this place has become desolate with ashes and sorrow.
I breathe, I live,
I call …
But there is no sound.
The tide ebbs silently away.
The waiata tangi soaring. The wind gathering to mourn for your father. And there, in the light, your father is waiting.
One step. And one step further now.
But wait: a voice cries out above the wailing. It sings with an indescribable fury and the words spill across the marae with fierce agony.
… kei whea i ara te toka whaiapu,
Te homai ai kia ripiripia
Ki te kiri moko e mau atu nei?
On the edge of the marae — half in light, half in shadow — a woman stands. You know this woman: she is Auntie Rose, a sister of your father’s. Her love for him was great, and her body trembles with anguish now that he is gone. Listen: she sings of her grief.
… Where is the jagged rock,
with which I might lacerate
this wasted body I possess …
Where … Where …
She sobs to herself and covers her face with her hands. Then her eyes look out from between her fingers and she cries out her anguish to you.
Auē! Auē, e Mokopuna.
A, e rua i ara ōku ringaringa
Ki te whakakopa mai tōku manawa,
E kakapa ana me he rau kahakaha …
Auntie Rose … When your kuia, Teria, was buried, this woman wanted to throw herself into the grave too. You were a little boy then. You didn’t understand about death. You stood watching your auntie as she screamed and fought against the men who held her back. She was possessed by grief and she cried out to your grandmother: E Mā! E Mā! Kaua koe e haere, e Mā …
Auē! Auē, e Mokopuna.
Ah, both my hands are needed
To clutch and hold my heart within,
As it wildly flutters like the kahakaha leaf …
Now Auntie Rose grieves again. She comes stepping slowly from the darkness into the light. Her gown is threaded with green leaves. The mourners make way for her. As she comes, she intones an ancient lament. Her voice thrusts above the wailing.
Whakarongo ki te tai
E tangi haere ana,
Whakariri ai
Te rae ki Tūranga …
She comes to you, her hands outstretched to you.
Listen to the tides
Lamenting as they flow,
Surging sullenly by
The headland at Tūranga …
She performs movements to her lament. Her hands move with intricate precision, telling of the grief that aches in her heart. They are slow ritual movements, one gesture blending into another. She touches her breast with her palms, then turns the palms toward the gathering. Her fingers quiver upon her eyes, then flicker down her body, enacting the falling of her tears. With a bold sweep, she touches her lips with her fingers, then lifts her hands, shivering the aroarowhaki toward the night sky.
Through the spray of my tears,
I see you, my brother’s son.
Come weep with me,
Our anchor is gone, and we are
cast adrift at the mercy of
the sea …
Listen to the way she calls to your father. She is a solitary bird circling and calling for a companion. She swoops low over sea and land, touching the tips of the waves and mountains with her wings.
Ngā ao o te tonga
E whākina mai rā
Haere ana koe
te hiwi o Ōkāhuatiu
Then she soars aloft, fluting her sorrow across the desolate expanse. And perhaps far away, she sees a sacred mountain … Ōkāhuatiu, Where the Hawks Fly. She wings towards it, harshly crying with the other birds circling in the thermal currents.
The clouds in the south
I see before me,
As you wend your way
Over Ōkāhuatiu.
And then Auntie Rose comes to you and weeps brokenly in your arms. Hold her tightly. Her heartbeat, you can feel it pounding. Tell her: Auntie, it’s all right, I will support you now. Comfort her. Press noses with her. Once more, before she is gone.
Auē, auē …
Ka whanatu te aroha
I te pī tō ngākau …
And one step further now.
See? You are almost there. At the porch where your father lies. Around the electric lights moths have gathered. And there, cast between an eave and a wall, is a spider’s web.
A red-backed spider watches on.
Haruru ana
Te Tiro a Whiro
Taia ake ahau e te mate
I muri nei ei.
The porch has been decorated with greenery. The wind stirs the leaves of the ferns and they bend and bow like a forest in a dark afternoon. Listen: you will hear a waterfall quietly thundering. And melting into the sound is the disconsolate twittering of the pīwakawaka as it flees further into the forest. Follow after it; come closer. Don’t be afraid. Haere mai. Haere mai.
Death comes, but I am
not yet dead.
I breathe
I live …
The porch is brilliant with its mass of flower wreaths. They are banked high upon the floor. The petals shiver, and drops of rain fall from them. And there, amid the wreaths, your father lies. Among a profusion of flowers. Amid brilliant white flowers.
Pūmau tonu atu
te rere anga te awa
te tōnga o te rā
ngā maunga tū noa.
Brush away your tears. Look up. Be proud. Look upon your mother and your family where they wait for you, their eldest brother and son to come: Mum, Rīpeka, Mere, Wiki, Hōne and Mārama. They sit around your father’s casket on a wide flax mat, which has been laid on the earth floor. Next to them are some of the possessions of Dad’s life: his silver sports trophies, his photographs. They celebrate his achievements.
I breathe, I live,
I call …
But there is no sound.
The tide ebbs silently away.
The children are too young to understand about death. You didn’t either, remember? When your grandmother Teria died, you sat beside her casket looking out into the darkness. The shrill ululation of the old women, the shadows that melted in and out of the night. Grief was all around you, too large to comprehend. You knew only that Grandmother was going to be buried in the ground where it was cold. Whenever the wailing began to welcome visitors to the marae, you whispered to her: Don’t you be afraid, Nan. Don’t you be afraid.
Remember your terror. Now think how much greater it must be for Hōne and Mārama. After Teria died, your father was still with you. For these two children, there is no father now. For them, the light has been suddenly extinguished and this is no momentary eclipse. From out of this dark night, you must bring them light again.
Yet the stream still runs
And the sun rides over the sky
And the mountains
Are always there.
Look now, upon your mother. Your father was her world and she weeps because he is gone. She kneels close to the casket, brushing your father’s face with her hands. Her tight embrace with him has been broken.
Your mother is the Earth. Her hair is silver with the mists of the hills. The contours of her face are the sculpted landscapes of Earth. Her moods are the seasons. This is her winter unending, the most bitter season of all. Look: you will see the frost on her cheeks and the ice glittering in her hair and the cold wind blowing across her body. She has known other winters, but they have been followed by thaw and sun. This winter is too desolate and despairing.
And now you are there.
You stand on the edge of the porch. The flower wreaths spread out before you, lustrous with the rain. The greenery casts flickering shadows in the light. Somewhere you hear the disconsolate twittering of the fantail as it comes to rest. Amid the flowers, photographs of your father are beaded with raindrops. And in the night, a clap of thunder reverberates across the hills.
Look up; gaze upon your father’s face.
Through the spray of my glistening
tears, I see you, my father.
I weep, for the carved prow
sinks slowly beneath the sea.
Your sight blurs with tears. You see only an aureole of light, like a silver mist.
Do not listen to the rain falling. Do not listen to the women wailing. It is only the wind sobbing with rain. It is the wind shifting, the wind renewing.
The rain falls heavily, drenching you suddenly with cold. It rushes down the sloping eaves of the porch. The wind rustles the greenery with a sudden whirlwind. The flower wreaths release sprays of raindrops.
And Mārama gets up and takes a few steps into your arms. Hold her as you stand loving Dad. He was the calm point of your world. Now he is gone and all your serenity has gone with him.
Now Rīpeka rises to greet you. Tama … she weeps.
Embrace her tightly, hug her close to you. Then turn to your other sisters Mere and Wiki … and Hōne, trying to be staunch.
Death comes, but I am
not yet dead.
The wailing has stopped. There is only the sound of the rain falling. Dad lies in his coffin as if sleeping. His casket is covered with a family heirloom, a feather cloak. In the radiant light it enfolds him like the wings of a giant moth.
Bend to your father.
Kiss him. His cheeks so cold.
Death cannot be denied.
So it really is true then.